shall
henceforth dread the still pools.'

"'So I came back,' she said, looking-round on us as though
all were explained.

"'How?' we asked.

"'Why, I came,' she answered plaintively, and had no more
to tell. She had been found sleeping on the grass near the
spruit, after a week of absence during which the men of the
district had combed the very bushes for a trace of her.

"'But the charm?' asked one of us. 'The charm to win
forgiveness? What was that?'

"She looked timidly at the tall Johannes who stood by her
chair in silence.

"'I have forgotten what it was,' she answered with wet
eyes.

"'No,' he cried, bending to her lips. 'No! It is a true
charm that, my kleintje.'"

"Good old Tagalash!" remarked Katje cheerfully.

THE HOME KRAAL

After sunset on a summer's day, when evening has overcome
the oppression of the still heat and breezes grow up like
thoughts, the world of veld becomes odorous, and every air
has its burden of unforgettable scents.

As we sat in the stoop, steeped in a flood of shadow,
looking down over the kraals to where the grasses are ever
green about the spruit, the Vrouw Grobelaar spoke gently.

"I should remember this," she said, "after a hundred years
of heaven. The winds of Mooimeisjes would call me even
then."

Katje's hand moved in mine.

"It is home," said Katje. "It--it makes me want to cry."

The Vrouw Grobelaar smiled. "As for me," she answered, "it
makes me think of nothing so much as that hollow beside
Cornel's grave, where, in my time, I shall go to my long
dreaming. This place has peace written large on its face;
and ah! it is at home that one would like to lie at last.
Yes, none of your damp churchyards for me! The home kraal,
like a Boer vrouw; for the grave and the home are never
quite two things to us Boers. How some have striven for the
home kraal, that feared to lie with strangers. Allemachtag,
yes!"

She moved a little in her armchair, and we waited in
silence for the tale to come. Katje came closer to me, in
that way she has, like a dear child or a little dog.

"The Vrouw van der Westhuizen," said the old lady, "had but
one child, a son. Emmanuel, she called him, for a dozen
poor reasons; and for him and in him she had her whole
life. The poor, they say, are rich in poor things, and this
lad grew to manhood with a multitude of mean little vices
and dirty ways which showed like a sign on his pale weak
face, and summed up the trivial soul withi